Domesticated
by Kabinett
Summary: Home is where the heart is and Remus is very far away from both. Remus Lupin's time with the werewolves PreAzkaban.


**Domesticated**  
by Becca

**Disclaimer: **Not mine!

**Warnings:** Nothing.

**Summary:** _ Let me stop here. Let me, too, look at nature awhile.  
The brilliant blue of the morning sea, of the cloudless sky,  
the yellow shore; all lovely,  
all bathed in light._

Let me stand here. And let me pretend I see all this  
(I really did see it for a minute when I first stopped)  
and not my usual day-dreams here too,  
my memories, those images of sensual pleasure. 

Morning Sea, by Constantine P. Cavafy

* * *

Remus knew, in an abstract sort of way, that the scenery was beautiful. The trees reached desperately up into the yawning black, occasionally shivering their needles and cover of snow into a rain-like trickle. The bushes and tall grasses grasped and sucked at each other, scuttering beasts chirping and calling to one another. The greens were fierce and even the sky was intense: the velvet black supporting a low and silver moon. It was more a place of wolves than man. The cold was sharp and tight, pulling and pinching his skin until it reddened. He took a fair amount of pride in the chill; the ability to feel cold was sacred to him. He couldn't run unencumbered through the brush like the others, and he clung to his clothing and discomfort.

They were his humanity, he said to himself. He used a tent and warming spell for warmth instead of other bodies because isolation was strength. His isolation was his identity, even if the soles of his shoes curled off at the ends.

---

Every morning he buried his wand under the wet ground, every morning studying the various larvae in horror. The others barked their laughter at him (so uncomfortably familiar), telling him it was proof he was really canine.

"Look at him bury his stick!"

"Wanna have a go at catch?"

"Not with him, lads, he's _civilized_."

---

Sometimes Remus hated Dumbledore, but he never questioned him.

Every morning he got up, buried his wand and then started to talk.

---

Every morning, after the first several, he made tea. It had been difficult to manage; nutshell to teacup china was a tricky piece of transfiguration. He supposed he could have made a more hardy mug, instead of the delicate piece he attempted, but he thought the effort was worth it.

It was petite and pretty, a creamy white with fine blue tracings and gorgeous little pictures. It had taken him three nights to design them and another two to make them to his satisfaction.

(Back at Hogwarts, Sirius always laughed at him for his "peculiar particularity" and his need to have everything right)

(On second thought, Sirius never stopped laughing)

It resembled the cup he had used the morning he left for Bavaria, except the pictures were different. Instead of telling a story of exotic China, they were homey little things of items that he knew so well it was almost superfluous to draw them.

Sirius's face was just to the left of the handle.

---

The night of the full moon was followed by a beautiful day. It was bright and fresh, the smell of loam and new grass almost overpowering the remnants of blood.

The pack had been impressed with Remus his first morning after his first moon; he had survived far better than most new arrivals. Most wolves were weak and atrophied, their muscles and strength having decayed through oppression and antiseptic cages.

Remus only smiled.

Moony had been running long before he knew of this wood and these people; Remus wasn't here for Moony's benefit.

---

A phenoix flaring before him in all its silver glory signified both his last evening and the coldest so far.

He couldn't sleep, not alone and not even with the warming spell. Remus thought the hum of his thoughts ought to have been able to soothe the chill –a chill which he could now abandon, since he was going home anyway.

A pine cone poked him in the arse and he almost didn't care. It was a tangible reminder that he was still here and the snapping cold wasn't Sirius' failing at warming spells, but Sirius not being here to try at all.

He knew, in the abstract, that the scenery was beautiful.

His hands scooped out cold dirt, rocks cracking his fingernails (already cracked) and making already filthy hands filthier. Fingers closed around a slim length of wood and he pulled it. Hunching further over, he dragged the wand out and muttered furious Latin.

Magic was like drawing, in a way. Especially the creation of a glamour or illusion, which dependent on artistic skill to shape the magic. Remus had always been good at them, James had never been able to manage. Sirius had a curious selectivity; he could never make people.

A shimmer shifted and solidified, becoming a figure kneeling in front of him. The light of the gibbous moon made the already pale skin surreal and the already delicate features sharp. Sirius leaned in front of him, probably more perfect than reality (looking more open than he had in a long time.)

Remus leaned in and pressed his lips to the air, tasting dust and life.


End file.
